


A Prince's Promise - The Chamber of the Northern Maids

by Amymel86



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Concubines, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon is a Targaryen prince, Rhaegar is a dick, Sansa is a virginal offering, Vaginal Fingering, but most importantly Rhaegar is a dick, porn with only a tiny bit of terrible plot, public displays of a sexual nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 16:51:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13528500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/pseuds/Amymel86
Summary: Tumblr prompt - "Everyone knows about the Targaryens' proclivity for concubines and polyamorous relationships. The Targaryens have conquered The North and have enslaved the noble houses. Sansa Stark is forced into a harem, where her beauty is well known throughout the realm. Jon is a Targaryen prince who falls in love with her."This one shot differs a little bit from the above, but it gives you a good idea of the gist.





	A Prince's Promise - The Chamber of the Northern Maids

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GypsyMoon88](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GypsyMoon88/gifts).



> THANK YOU my lovely GypsyMoon88 for such a delicious prompt! I hope that you like what I ended up with!!!
> 
> ALSO - It is late and I am running on coffee, but I wanted to get this 'out there' so there will most likely be a whole plethora of typos and mistakes! Please be gentle with me - I'm having a BAD DAY!

Sansa pulled her spine taut and took a deep breath. “We will endure it,” she called out in a voice that only belied her courage a fraction. She looked each one of the other girls in the eye, willing them to find it within themselves to seek their own bravery. “We will endure what they have in store, and we will do whatever it takes to survive. On my honour as a Stark, we will see the North again.”

“We will be ruined before we ever see another flake of snow,” whispered one girl to another.

Sansa closed her eyes and took another steadying breath. “The dragons may take our maiden’s gifts ungiven, but they will not have anything else from us.”

The metal scrape and clang of the locked vault echoed against the stones and a couple of girls scattered to the corners. Sansa and the others stood defiantly rooted to the spot. “Ladies,” came the putrid greeting of their keeper – the one who holds the keys tucked securely around his neck and under his undershirt; the one who Sansa dreams of slitting his throat and _running, running, running._ The large, sweaty man entered their chamber – The Chamber of the Northern Maids. The room was lined with their lavishly decorated beds that were dressed in white silk and crowned with drapes of virginal white Myrish lace. Sansa had come to hate the colour. “You best mind your manners, girls,” the man bellowed, “this ‘ere ‘s the prince.”

As soon as the words had left their keeper’s foul mouth, in strode a man of unremarkable height, dark of hair with pale skin. He was dressed impeccably head to toe in black and was flanked by a quartet of royal guards. Sansa instantly dropped herself low, bowing her head, tucking it under as much as she possibly could. She knew her flame red hair stood out amongst her brunette and mousy-haired companions and she did not wish to be noticed at all.

A pair of boots appeared before her, black and scuffed, the leather seeming rather well-worn and out-of-sorts with what Sansa mused a Targaryen prince would wear. “Rise,” the owner of the boots said above her, “all of you.”

The room seemed to shift as she stood, her fellow northern maids all straightening their bones before the prince. Sansa kept her eyes low, but it seemed that had not pleased his Grace as she felt the tip of a warm finger slide beneath her chin and tilt her gaze upwards towards his face.

Sansa’s lips parted in surprise and her eyes widened as she took in the sight of him properly for the first time. This prince was the one who was part-wolf, she was sure of it. His long face and grey eyes spoke only of biting northern winds – there was no hint of a scented southern breeze about this man. It was like looking at her father and all the other Starks who came before him. Sansa could not detect one scale of the dragon about him. And yet, here he was, at home in the dragon’s lair.

The prince’s nostrils flared slightly as his eyes roamed her face. His finger still against the underside of her chin. His eyes lazily descended to her neck and the drag of his finger followed, the feather-light touch ghosting over her throat and igniting wildfire under her skin.

Sansa cursed herself for swallowing at precisely the moment in which the prince would feel the action beneath his finger as her pulse pounded deafeningly in her ears. His gaze travelled further, lower to her breasts as they appeared beneath the thin gauzy material that they were all given to wear – the dresses they were afforded could hardly be named dresses at all; all thin white chiffon, looped and gathered at various places on the body and cinched at the waist with a red corded belt. The prince’s eyes moved lower still to her navel. When his sights hit the copper curls, visible at the juncture of her legs, he himself swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing before he seemed to compose himself, pulling back his hand and tugging on his doublet unnecessarily. The prince cleared his throat and looked to Sansa’s companions.

“I am Prince Jon Targeryen,” he announced clearly, “today is my name-day and as such, I have been granted a precious gift from my father.” All the ladies remained still, the air was thick with thrumming hearts and racing pulses. “My father, the King, has granted me the rights to take one of you northern maids as my own,” his words rang out and boomed in Sansa’s ears. _Not me, not me,_ the rational part of her brain screamed, whilst the irrational consoled that at least she would only have to bear the claws of a wolf and not the talons of a dragon – if she is to be used thusly, then surely it would be easier to yield her maidenhead to a man whose veins may have ice in them yet?

Prince Jon walked slowly past each maid, seeming to assess them before he landed right back in front of Sansa once more. She dropped her gaze – she supposes it would seem the action was born out of respect, when in reality, she could not bear to meet those Stark eyes in this instance.

Sansa watched his boots twist as he turned back to call over his shoulder at his guards. “What do you think of this one, lads?”

“Very good, your grace,” came one of the answering voices, “nice perky teats on that one. A good choice.”

The prince made a grunting sound that Sansa thought sounded akin to displeasure. She wondered who it was that caused his annoyance.

“Your name, my lady?”

Sansa’s eyes drifted slowly upwards to meet with the prince’s and her heart near leapt from her chest when she herself confirmed that he was, in fact, addressing her directly. “Sansa,” she croaked before clearing her throat to be heard more easily, “Sansa of House Stark.”

The prince’s eyes dropped to her mouth, then to her neck before focussing on the space between her breasts. “I thought as much,” he nodded to himself before turning to address the keeper of the keys. “Have her bathed and brought to the banquet” he ordered, abruptly leaving the Chamber of the Northern Maids and taking his guards with him.

It didn’t take long for some of the more seasoned members of the royal harem to appear and descend upon Sansa with oils, and jewels, and sweet-smelling balms. _“Not too much,”_ a dark-skinned beauty had commented to the blonde who was massaging rose oil all over Sansa’s torso, _“they’ll want to smell the innocence on her, not the perfumes of a whore.”_

“They?” Sansa squeaked, her head snapping round to make askance to the women gathered over her – only for the concubine who had been fussing with her hair to tut and roughly bring her head back into place.

“Yes, my dear,” one of the women said, Sansa did not know which – she daren’t risk moving her head again to see. “You are to be presented to the prince at the banquet. Many men from the court will wish to see Prince Jon’s name-day gift.”

Sansa stayed quiet after that, willing her nerves to quieten, ushering her pulse to calm and praying her heart would cease it’s incessant thudding against her ribs.

She was delivered to two tall, intricately carved doors and told to wait. She stared hard at the depictions of dragons on the door before her and tried to urge her mind elsewhere. The women had put her white gauzy ‘dress’ back on after her bathing and had styled her hair down, citing that the look was maidenly and virginal.

“You may enter,” came the brusque voice of one of the guards, just before both doors swung open and the chatter from within the banquet hall instantly quietened. Sansa took a deep breath and willed her feet to move forward, her eyes scanning all the faces that were turned towards her.

 _Men_ , she thought coarsely, _I see only men._ She could feel her cheeks flame under the scrutiny of so many, their eyes feasting on the curves of her body.

She spotted him then - Prince Jon – sat at the head of a long feasting table, the top covered in all manner of fare. Curiously, he looked to be frozen nervously in place as he stared darkly at her, his tongue swiping quickly along his bottom lip.

A booming laughter rang out loud and clear, suddenly piercing the previously silent air. “Oh, Jon!” the man guffawed, clapping happily to his own amusement. “You picked the Stark girl?! Perfect! Just perfect!” he laughed heartily.

Sansa’s eyes were drawn to the man in question, long silver hair and a happy face that she did not trust. He was older than the prince and wore a fine black doublet with a large three headed dragon embroidered on his breast. _King Rhaegar,_ she realised and bowed her head as the dragon king approached her, still merry from his apparent delight.

“You won’t take poor Daenerys to wife, but you’ll choose a Stark as your whore?” he chuckled as he got nearer, his voice still ringing out over the large hall. “I’m beginning to suspect it is purely your preference in beasts of fur rather than your own of fire-made-flesh, hmm?” he asked, circling Sansa where she stood still.

“She is a beauty, father, “ Jon called out. “ _That_ is why I chose her. Her house means nothing to me.”

Rhaegar settled in front of her and tipped her face up from under her chin, much like his son had done – only the King’s touch was more forceful. His skin was smooth and clammy, making Sansa’s stomach roll and a desire to retch come unbidden. Sansa found it difficult to meet those violet eyes, so she shifted her sights and caught an odd expression on Prince Jon’s face – anger perhaps, or worry? His knuckles looked to be turning as white as her virginal dress where they clenched around the arm of his lavishly carved seat. The man looked positively possessive of her as if she were a toy he’d not wish to share.

“Oh yes,” the king appraised, turning her head this way and that so he was afforded a view of her from every angle. “Yes, she is rather a fine catch,” Rhaegar agreed, “rather a fine catch indeed.” His eyes raked her over, paying close attention to the swell of her breast and even walking back behind her to view her bottom once more. Sansa held her breath throughout. “Girls!” the king yelled abruptly, his eyes still fixed on her body as he licked his lips “where are my girls?!”

A door to the side of the room opened and in sauntered two dozen scantily clad women. Sansa wondered if this was a royal court or a pleasure house as the near naked courtesans came to talk to the feasting lords or draped themselves across the laps of those that were seated.

“Go,” the King murmured directly to Sansa, nudging her forward slightly, “you are a gift to my son. Make him happy and you shall be made comfortable here.”

Sansa stumbled forwards, her blush intensifying as her eyes met with the prince’s. She could feel the heavy stares of those that were not preoccupied with their food or other lusty appetites as she slowly walked towards where he sat. _Be brave,_ she told herself. _Be brave, like a lady in a song._

Sansa curtsied before Prince Jon – the deed seeming ridiculous in itself considering the wanton activities around her and her state of undress before him. “My prince,” she bowed her head, hoping that he did not see how she grit her teeth.

“Lady Sansa of House Stark,” he greeted, smiling up at her, not bothering to rise from his seat. He pat his thigh expectantly and raised a brow.

Sansa sucked in a breath and perched on his lap, feeling herself go rigid when a large warm hand was laid upon the small of her back where he began rubbing small slow circles. “We are cousins, you and I” he declared, “did you know that?”

“I-“ Sansa made to answer, only for her attention to be somewhat distracted by the woman straddling a lord who sat close by. The concubine’s hips moving hypnotically as she ground her sex back and fourth along the Lord’s breeches. Prince Jon cleared his throat, his hand slipping from her back to curl around her hip, tugging her closer to his frame. She turned to look down at him, only just now realising that his face was in perfect alignment and in close proximity to her bosom. “Pay them no mind,” he whispered, his eyes flicking briefly to the couple who were now making obscene noises.

“Is…is that what I am to do…to you?” Sansa asked. Prince Jon smiled up at her and shook his head. “Then what-?”

The prince jostled her gently in his lap, repositioning her a little. From this new arrangement Sansa could feel something hard poke at the underside of her thigh. He breathed in, his lips framing his next words, but a lord called out before they could leave his mouth.

“Get her good and ready my Prince!” he called out, roughly cupping the mound of the woman in his lap, making her yelp and then titter with laughter, “make her slick for the main event!”

Sansa gaped at the display but was even more surprised to hear an actual growl emanate from deep within Prince Jon’s chest. She glanced down at him just in time to see his scowl morph into a forced smile. He nodded and gave a short wave of acknowledgment to the Lord who offered the crude advice before she heard him mutter something angrily to himself.

He turned into her, his other hand joining its twin on her hip, effectively encircling her in his arms. “It should please me to have a kiss from you my lady,” he rasped, staring at her lips and swallowing.

Sansa leant forwards tentatively until her lips brushed delicately with his. Prince Jon’s lips were soft and the beard that surrounded them tickled her skin. Pulling back, Sansa watched as his eyes open slowly, the grey turning dark and stormy. “Did…did that please you, my prince?” she asked.

He licked his lips and nodded. “More…please” he said in a low scratchy whisper that gave Sansa curious prickles across her skin. She leant down once more, this time, the prince’s hand slipping from her hip to travel up her back and cup the nape of her neck, holding her to him.

His kisses were short and almost chaste – a marked difference to the sloppy meetings of mouths happening all around them. A pleased sounding rumble came from the centre of his chest and his other hand moved to the top of Sansa’s thigh, his thumb caressing her slowly, working her to become pliant in his lap. The prince’s lips moved from her own, slipping down her cheek and jaw to stop just below her earlobe. His hand still cupped her, holding her in place as her blood thumped in her veins and his hot breath fanned against her skin.

“Do not be afraid,” he whispered, “what remains of the northern forces are gathering beyond The Wall-“ Sansa’s breath hitched in her throat as she tried to make sense of his words. “I will help you reach them,” he continued, pausing to nuzzle at her neck and smooth his hand up and down the top of her thigh.

“I don’t-“

“Shhh-“ the prince interrupted, “our words must not be overheard. We must play along. I will not take your maidenhead. You are no _‘gift’_ of mine.” Sansa struggled to comprehend his words twinned with his lips brushing against her earlobe and the steady stroking sweep of his hand on her leg. “We must play along,” he repeated, “my father will expect a certain display of us before he will let me steal you away. _Then_ I will help you leave the keep. A boat is waiting.”

Sansa sat still, replaying the prince’s promise over in her mind before she nodded her head, the action being met with a squeeze of acknowledgement atop her thigh. “Play along,” he urged into her ear, “it is all for show, I assure you.”

Sansa turned and caught his lips with hers, eliciting a small groan from the prince. Bracing herself on his shoulders, she tilted her head to slot their mouths more securely together. Sansa broke away and softly began kissing along his jaw in much the same fashion as he had done. “If this is all for show,” she whispered against his ear, “why can I feel a hardness in your breeches, my prince?” Sansa asked, shifting against his lap for emphasis making his breath hitch in his throat.

He kissed along her neck, burying his face from view of the court amongst the fall of her hair. “Forgive me,” he breathed into her, “I am only a man and you...you are very beautiful” he choked, “my body is not under my control with you like this…but I assure you, I will help you and the other north-maids leave this place.”

Sansa squeezed her eyes closed and sucked in a steadying breath. This may all be a ploy to trick her – to toy with her hope and shatter it to pieces afterwards. And yet, what other options does she have? This prince is half wolf after all. He was raised as a dragon but perhaps the north calls to him? His mother perished not long after his birth. Sansa had always known whispers of a forced marriage to the king and a convenient death after Lady Lyanna bore him a son. Could it be that these whispers travelled this far south? That the prince believes in them too?

“Alright,” she whispers into his dark curls, her hands clutching his shoulders tightly. “What should I do?”

“Act as lovers do,” he murmured, “pretend that you want to please me.”

She kissed him, suddenly, and hard and heady, with her fingers spearing his hair and her eyes tightly closed. The prince moaned into her mouth, one of his hands slipping down to grasp the round of her behind, pulling her even more closely to him as if he meant to mould them together as one.

“Like that?” she whispered once they’d broken apart.

“Yes,” the prince panted, “like that.”

“How long do we have to pretend?”

“Until my father deems you ready,” he whispered, kissing along her throat, his hands making a map of her curves as he did so. “He will be watching us.”

Sansa peered back over her shoulder, and sure enough, with a woman of his own in his lap, the King was sat at the opposite end of the table, giving them his rapt attention. Sansa gasped and snapped her head back in place. The prince’s warm hands stilled, his arms tightening around her briefly before he kissed back up her neck to murmur into the side of her cheek. “Sssh, it’s alright, I’ve got you. I won’t hurt you…we just have to do this until he’s convinced…do you think you can convince him?” Sansa inhaled, her ribs expanding where she pressed against the prince. She gave a nod, his beard scraping against her cheek as she did so. “Put your hands to my hair again,” he suggested as one of his own began to stroke the length of her locks.

“Stop teasing the girl my prince!” came an unexpected call from a lord seated at the table, “is she wet and wanting for you yet?”

Sansa and her prince froze, their eyes locked together as her frame obscured his face from the other attendees of the feast. “Patience is a virtue, my Lord” Jon responded loudly with an irritated growl. Sansa let a little tension seep from her frame as his comment was met with a few murmurings of laughter.

“Indeed,” the King called out over the din, causing people to hush immediately, “but it will not do to torment your gift in such a way.” Jon’s eyes widened very briefly, his body going taut and his arms tightening around her. “She must be full of nervous anticipation the poor thing. Put her out of her misery. Is she ready for you?”

“I am!” Sansa yelped, twisting in her prince’s lap to look back at the king. “I am ready!”

Rhaegar chuckled darkly. “Check her.”

“Father, she-“ Jon began to protest.

“Check her!”

Jon stared at the King, waves of hot anger wafting off of him until he sucked in a shuddering breath and nodded once to his father. He placed a soft kiss to Sansa cheek and whispered into her skin. “I am sorry, Sansa…please forgive me…o-…open your legs a little...please”

Sansa’s pulse thrummed as she stared at him, trying to discern whether or not this was a jest. She could find no hint of it, so her gaze began to search the other lords around them and then finally the King. All eyes were on her and her prince - watching, waiting. She swallowed painfully and shifted her thighs apart.

Prince Jon gently pressed a warm flat palm to Sansa’s stomach, below her navel - she wonders if he can feel the churning from within as his thumb sweeps back and forth across the thin material there. His lips returned to her neck as his hand slowly descended her body and slipped between the folds of fabric, his fingertips breaching the start of her maiden’s hair. Sansa’s breathing quickened as she her eyes darted around at all the faces watching her – _watching him and what he was doing._ Jon’s other hand squeezed her hip in assurance. “Ignore them,” he whispered, “close your eyes. There’s no one else here.” He rasped as the pads of his fingers drew lazy circles through the hair of her womanly place. Sansa’s breath hitched, eliciting another comforting squeeze from her prince. “Close your eyes Sansa,” he urged once more.

She obeyed this time, the many curious faces disappearing into the darkness of her eyelids. All that existed to her now was the warmth of Prince Jon – his hot wet mouth just below her jaw, his strong arm cradling around her back and the hand the now dipped between her thighs.

Sansa whined a little, the sensation of someone else’s touch _there_ an odd one. She licked her lips, her eyes still closed as she willed herself to forget the presence of everyone else in the room. The Prince’s fingers explored her gently, rubbing up and down, up and down as he continued to kiss and nuzzle at her hair and neck. She could feel his efforts to even out his breathing as he nosed behind her ear.

Quite suddenly, his touch disappeared. “She is ready,” Sansa heard Jon call out to his father. She opened her eyes and saw the King looking amused. He raised a brow in silent question prompting Jon to hold up his hand, his digits curled over save for the middle and forefinger. Sansa blushed a deep scarlet as she realised what it was he was presenting for everyone to see. There, in full view, was a glisten of something coating the prince’s fingertips. Sansa watched as he separated his fingers, strands of the sticky substance linking the two. She sucked in a breath as shame washed over her. Prince Jon pecked a kiss to the patch of skin below her ear. “It’s alright,” he murmured low so that she were the only one to hear it. “See?” the prince called out, “she _is_ ready,” he said with finality, wiping his fingers on his breeches and making a move to rise from his seated position.

“Let us not end your name-day feast in such haste dear boy,” the King boomed, his voice echoing off the marble floors. Jon stilled, his arms circling Sansa’s frame once more. “Your Stark whore is a maiden after all and will need to be treated with care and attention. She will not thank you for rushing in taking your pleasure.”

“Of course not, Father. But I should wish to-“

“ _You should wish_ -” Rhaegar interrupted, that Targaryen temper rising to the surface, “-to please your King. And your King has offered his advice. Will you not take it?”

“I will,” Jon gulped begrudgingly.

“Good,” the King said, a pleased and wicked grin creeping across his face. “In your lap sits not just _any_ northern maid, but the one they chose to name a _‘northern Princess’_. A maid of outstanding beauty and breeding, a girl who the north would deem the jewel of their unruly kingdom,” he paused, a menacing glint twinkling in his eye. “Make her come apart.”

“Father-“

“Make her peak,” Rhaegar reiterated, “for us all to see.”

Sansa was sure that the hall was as silent as the grave, the only sound to be heard was her own erratic heart. The rigid air was so thick, she swore she could taste the buzz of tension within it. After what seemed like endless moments of the Prince gaping at his father, who in turn, stared his son down, challenging him to disobey, Jon shifted in his seat, jostling Sansa a little before clearing his throat. “Very well,” he conceded as Sansa’s eyes widened on him.

He kissed her then, tender and sweet, his hand coming back to toy with her maiden’s hair. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, he murmured against her lips, his fingers dipping lower between her legs. “Close your eyes again. Pretend they’re not there, imagine I’m someone else – someone you would want to touch you this way,” he husked against Sansa’s ear, sending shivers down her spine. “Pretend I’m a handsome knight from a song and you my lady-love,” Jon continued, his beard scraping against the column of her neck as the pads of his fingers sought out the bud at the top of her sex.

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat once his seeking fingers found their intended destination, rubbing her firmly and yet slowly in circles. She fisted her hands in his doublet and fought the urge to arch her back or rock into his touch.

“That’s it,” he whispered to her between suckling on her earlobe, “just relax. Concentrate on my touch – nothing else. It’s just you and your valiant knight.”

Sansa’s teeth bit into her bottom lip, her eyes still closed. She pictured golden haired, square jawed knights upon wintery white steeds, coming to rescue her and proclaim their ever-lasting love. But the heat that Prince Jon was igniting between her legs was awfully distracting from the dreams she wove and her golden-haired knight began to morph - shifting into a northern looking man with dark curls and storm-grey eyes. She shook her head to herself, he breath coming out in pants now. _A valiant knight, a valiant knight, a valiant knight,_ she chanted silently, only for her mind to answer back with _the dragon prince, the dragon prince, the dragon prince._

Sansa whined when Jon’s fingers abandoned the delicious spot he had been working at to slip up and down through her folds. Sansa gasped out loud when he sought her core and pushed a digit inside her, causing Jon to still and his breath to hitch. “Shhh, you’re alright,” he whispered to her, his words like hot syrupy honey being drizzled down the length of her spine, “I’ve got you - your knight. I’ll make it good. Just relax – relax into me.” The pad of his thumb came up to slowly swipe over her sensitive bud from side to side. Sansa whimpered and let out a long breath she had been holding on to. “You like that?” her prince asked. Sansa licked her lips and nodded as Jon began slowly working his finger in and out of her.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed into her neck, licking at the edge of her jaw, “so, so beautiful.” Another finger joined the first, creating a dull sting as he built his rhythm. “Gods! What I wouldn’t give for circumstances to be different.” He increased the pressure on her bud, making her buck shamelessly against his hand. “That’s it, good girl,” he whispered, his own breath now sounding laboured against her ear. “Chase that feeling, move your hips,” the prince urged.

The sting had faded completely now, and all Sansa could feel was the heat of his mouth and the workings of his hand. Pleasure began to build and unfurl, creeping along like a stealthy feline, waiting for the perfect time to make that pounce. Sansa started to hear a wet sound coming from Jon’s ministrations at her sex, she may have blushed at the realisation but the feeling he was inducing was just too delicious for her to pay it much mind. Jon groaned and dragged his teeth over her earlobe. “Mmmm, so good sweetheart” he rumbled from his chest, hot heavy breaths expelling from his nose into the thick of her hair. “Play with your teats,” he hummed into her throat, “it will feel nice.”

“I-… I don’t know-…I’ve never-“ the pounding in her ears and the thick pulsing at her sex were making it all too difficult for Sansa to think straight, thoughts of all the eyes on her seemed to fade away, only to be replaced with the aching _need_ to be satisfied.

“Do you want me to do it?” he asked.

Sansa kissed him, not for show, or to pretend, but because it was what her body was telling her to do. “Yes,” she breathed against his lips before Jon shifted her, his hand disappearing from her sex and coming to her waist, moving Sansa so that she sat astride the prince now. Her face was a whole head above him as she braced herself against his shoulders and her legs curled under at either side of his own. Jon grasped her hips, looking up into her eyes as he moved her back and forth, rubbing that centre of pleasure against his breeches as he moved his own hips up in time with hers like some sort of lusty dance.

“Feel good?” he asked in a voice that sounded a little strained. Sansa nodded and ground herself down a little harder against him, making the prince groan and his eyes flutter closed. “If you carry on like that, I’ll be the one to come apart,” he whispered, his nostrils flairing before placing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses against her breastbone as she continued to writhe in his lap.

Sansa sucked in a gasp when the prince’s hands came up to cup her breasts, kneading them gently through the transparent fabric of her dress. She’d never paid too much mind to the curves of her womanhood, but now, with the way her prince was lavishing them with his attention, and just how good that felt – she wondered why she had not explored her body further.

Jon pulled at the fabric of her dress, exposing a breast completely. He circled her teat with the pad of his middle finger, round and round until it was a tight, dusky pink bud. Sansa watched with her lips parted, breaths coming out in pants as she continued to rock into that sweet pressure between her legs.Looking up at her, Jon's eyes had grown so dark, they looked positively black. He held her half-lidded gaze as he gently lowered his head to her breast, closing his lips around her nipple. Sansa keened at the hot, wet feel of her prince’s mouth, the rough of his tongue dragging over the stiff peak before he started to suckle. Bolts of lightning shot from his attentions straight down to her sex, making the whole area tingle in such a way that she began to cant her hips against him with renewed fervour. Jon moaned around her nipple, seemingly pleased with her new pace, the vibration from his rumbling eliciting a shudder to roll down her spine.

“That’s it sweet girl,” he mumbled around her teat, his eyes staying fixed up to hers. “Do you like that? Does it feel good?”

Sansa whimpered out her answer and bucked harder against him. _Almost there, almost there_ , she silently sang, her breathing hard and laboured until the prince sharply sucked on one of her teats whilst his fingers pinched at the other.

The hot white light rolled through her body, bowling her over so fast that she couldn’t even hope to hold back the choked sob that came tearing from her throat. “Good girl,” Jon murmured after her tense body relaxed on top of him, his hands gently stroking her in a soothing fashion as she panted, slipping down, down, down from her high. “It’s done. It’s done,” he whispered, placing a tender peck to her collarbone.

A loud, single, slow clap echoed around the hall, prompting Sansa to open her eyes and remember precisely _where_ she was, and just how many sets of eyes were still on her. Her senses came back to her and she flushed a deep crimson red – a shade or two darker than the palette of her pleasure. Turning in Prince Jon’s lap, she saw the king looking rather pleased with himself.

“Quite the display,” he declared, the other lords breaking the silence to mutter and chuckle. “You may run along and claim her maiden’s gift,” the king said with a wave of his hand, suddenly looking rather bored, “I am done with this evening’s entertainment and wish to retire.”

“Father,” Jon called out before the king could rise, “I have a request,” Rhaegar cocked a brow in question, prompting Jon to lick his lips and continue, “the other northern maids-“

King Rhaegar began to laugh. “You may be young and it may be your name-day boy, but you cannot claim all seven maiden’s gifts in one night,” he chortled, the woman in his own lap jiggling with his movement.

“No father,” Jon pressed on, “I wish-“ he paused to take a steadying breath, “I wish for them to watch.”

Sansa’s head snapped to look at her prince with wide eyes. He returned her worry with a squeeze to her hip for reassurance.

“To watch?” the king asked.

“Yes. You say Lady Stark here is a jewel of the north – a norther princess. Let them watch their princess be plucked.”

Rhaegar’s answering booming laugh resounded around the room, the lords and concubines joining him in it. “Very well. Very well,” he chuckled, “we shall grant this, your name-day’s wish.” The king nodded to one of his men, who then scurried away from the hall to do his bidding.

“Thank you father,” Jon said, letting out the breath he had been holding on to, his arms tightening around Sansa as they watched the king rise from his seat and take not one, not two, but three harlots with him to retire for the evening. “Come,” Jon commanded quickly, alighting his chair and grabbing her hand, tugging her from the room.

They ran hand-in-hand down the long, wide corridor. Sansa felt like laughing but she daren’t let any noise escape her – not yet, not until she is as far away from this place as she possibly could be. _Not until she is safe._

Reaching what Sansa suspects to be Jon’s chambers, he yanked her through the door and promptly bolted it behind them. “The others will be here soon,” he panted, speaking quickly, “I have cloaks in here,” Sansa watched him hurry over to a large oak chest, opening the lid and pulling out handfuls of dark material. “My man, Ser Davos is waiting beneath my balcony in the gardens, I have a rope - it’s not a long drop, you should all manage it. Davos can lead you out through the gardens and then-“

“You’re not coming with us?” Sansa asked, suddenly terribly afraid of the prospect of leaving this man who was still a stranger to her behind.

“I can’t, I-“

Sansa took long strides before she could stop herself, eating up the distance between them. “Come with us,” she implored, grasping both his hands in hers.

“The northern lords, they-…they will not accept me.”

“They will.”

“You don’t know that. I am a Targaryen,” Jon gulped, his eyes flitting between her own.

There was a sudden banging on the prince’s chamber door. “Your maidens, your grace,” came a gruff voice from the other side.” Jon jumped to stuff the cloaks back into the chest, slamming the lid closed.

“Lay on the bed,” he hissed.

“Jon-“

“ _Lay on the bed!_ ”

She stopped him then, ceasing his panic with cupped hands cradling his face before she brought his mouth to hers, her tongue slipping past his lips to slide against his own. Jon moaned, his arms wrapping around her frame instantly.

“ _Come with us_ ,” Sansa demanded on a whisper. “I will _make_ them accept you.” Jon hands ghosted up her sides to curl around her wrists, his thumbs gently sweeping back and forth.

The guard thumped on the door once more making them both jump. Neither of them moved – not just yet.

“Alright,” he breathed, his forehead coming to touch with hers. “I’ll come with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Whew - I hope that was ok? Let me know!!
> 
> Also - I feel like the bulk of this was made up of just them getting frisky at a feast so I'm really sorry GypsyMoon88! that probably isn't what you had in mind for your prompt! :-(


End file.
